Tag: cancer test


Radioactive Man & Birthday Boy

6
October

Radioactive Man & Birthday BoyI was never one to get overly excited about birthdays.  Since turning 40, in particular, each passing year was not something I relished celebrating.  That was before D-Day.  My 44th birthday yesterday was quite different to all the ones that preceded it.

Someone asked me what I wanted for my birthday.  I replied, joking (but not really), that all I wanted for my birthday is another birthday.  It seems strange to me now that I used to regard birthdays with mild annoyance.  It was as though their sole purpose was to reiterate how far removed I was from the full flush of youth, when health and optimism were in abundance.

It’s funny how it takes something like a diagnosis of cancer to shake you out of the drudgery of mundane, everyday routines and to understand your place in the universe.  I now value birthdays for what they really are – a celebration of another year of life – not a countdown to old age and death.  Indeed, it now seems to me that when we moan about getting old, we completely miss the point.  Old age is a gift, not to be taken for granted.  I used to joke that what I wanted to be ‘when I grow up’ is a dirty old man.  That is still my goal but it’s not so much a joke as it used to be.

In an effort to establish whether my cancer has spread and to what extent if it has, I had my bone scan today.  This is of paramount importance to me.  The initial diagnosis of prostate cancer is one thing but this and the MRI will quantify it, giving me a better indication of my chances of survival.  The scan itself was quite straightforward.  My appointment was for 08:30 and I was back out on Eccles Street at 08:42, so no problem with long waiting times there.  I was given an injection of radioactive material and this needed two hours to be absorbed by my bones.

There were no side-effects and I was free to leave the hospital for the couple of hours.  Breakfast called so I had a thoroughly unhealthy full Irish (cholesterol is the least of my concerns these days), followed by a visit to the Irish Cancer Society kiosk in the foyer of the hospital.  I picked up a few more booklets about radiotherapy, the emotional effects of cancer and talking to children about cancer.  The ICS nurse was very helpful and told me about a Prostate Cancer Conference in Croke Park on 5th November.  I will be attending that if I am not in hospital for surgery at the time.

Karma demands that if I get through this I must give something back.  So my plan for the conference is to learn as much as I can about the available supports for prostate cancer patients and their families, draw what I can for my own case and to find out how I can make my contribution later.  It is a pity that it takes a diagnosis of my own to get me off my arse and doing something proactive.  I have a new found respect and admiration for people who freely give of themselves for the benefit of others, in whatever cause.

Now that my bones were nice and radioactive, it was time to return to the Nuclear Medicine Department for the scan.  I have to say that I found it very efficiently run and I did not have to wait long before finding myself lying in the scanner.  It was not as intimidating as the MRI machine, being smaller, less confined and relatively silent.  The scan would take about twenty minutes, as the machine moved slowly from my head to my feet, seeking out concentrations of radioactivity in my bones, where it would indicate a presence of cancer cells.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my skeleton being progressively revealed on a computer monitor.  With my layman’s untrained eye, I strained to discern anything that looked like a hot spot.  Head, shoulders, rib cage – so far so good.  The abdominal area looked brighter than I would have expected and I could clearly see my kidneys.  As this was a bone scan, I was concerned about seeing my kidneys lit up like Christmas trees and I have recently been feeling some mild discomfort in the area.  I imagine that the kidneys could be ‘riddled’ and the thought of a potential regime of dialysis or waiting for a transplant is unsettling.  There isn’t anyone in the room with me at the time so it will be the first thing I ask about when the scan completes.

The staff who appeared were all very pleasant and my question about the prominence of my kidneys is answered.  It’s perfectly normal and nothing to worry about. The kidneys are supposed to show up like this and it is why I will have to drink as much fluid as I can over the next 24 hours, to flush out the radioactive material.  The nuke med staff were at pains to stress that they are not doctors nor trained to interpret the scan result – that is Prof. FitzPatrick’s job.  However, they see hundreds of these scans and as far as they could see, my bones look normal.

Oh Happy Day!  Medical professionals can be infuriatingly non-committal so it was encouraging to hear this opinion, albeit with a disclaimer.  There is a risk that the medical team who will officially analyse the scan may take a different view.  But after waiting this long for more details, I will grasp with both hands any lifeline that’s thrown my way.

I have been feeling ‘odd’ in my abdominal area recently and actually very worried indeed about what the scans may reveal.  There is a danger when you have a serious illness that you attribute undue significance to every little ache and pain.  With middle age now upon me, I have to remind myself to be circumspect and not jump to conclusions.  I am still awaiting with bated breath an appointment to meet Prof. FitzPatrick and discuss my treatment in greater detail.

In the meantime and for the rest of the day, I am to avoid pregnant women and young children because I will be emitting radiation to a radius of about two metres.  I have never been radioactive before and wonder if I will acquire superhero powers or whether my piss will glow in the dark.  Probably not.  I consider myself to have already received my share of good fortune today!

2 comments » | Cancer

Dial M for Magnetic Resonance Imaging

1
October

It’s now been two weeks since D-Day and there are still no outward signs of any symptoms of prostate cancer.  As welcome as this is in itself, it is a mixed blessing in a way.  Feeling physically normal makes it harder to truly accept that you have cancer.  Maybe there has been some mistake?  No. I was never one for clutching at straws and it is highly unlikely that both the PSA test and biopsy got it wrong.  If life has taught me anything, it is that knowing a thing and feeling it are two very different affairs.  So, I must accept the diagnosis and keep preparing for the worst, like hearing a tsunami warning and bracing yourself for the tribulations to come.

Having finally completed reading the Understanding Prostate Cancer booklet, I now have some figures to quantify the likelihood of post-surgery issues.  There is a 70% probability of urinary incontinence during the year following surgery, dropping to 10% thereafter.  The likelihood of erectile dysfunction (ED) is also 70%, dropping to a less encouraging 30% a year after surgery.

Urinary incontinence is pretty much something to be coped with but there are some well known drugs for treating ED, like Cialis and Viagra.  Another drug I hadn’t heard of before is Caverjet.  According to booklet, Caverjet is “injected into the penis using a small needle to cause an erection”.   I’ll have to take their word for that because I cannot conceive of any cause/effect relationship between ‘needle’ and ‘erection’!  On the other hand, the most memorable sentence in the whole booklet, also about Caverjet, is: “a prolonged erection longer than 3 hours needs urgent medical attention”.  Intriguing!  I dare say, if I had a stiffy like that, it’s the lovely Colette who would be in need of medical attention. Ha Ha!

At a yoga class for men with prostate cancer on Monday I met John, who had his radical prostatectomy in January.  He still has problems with his waterworks now and you can tell from his demeanour that he’s fed up with it.  But John is happy to have survived and talk among the men is mostly about check-ups and comparing notes about doctors and treatments.  I was by far the youngest there and felt a bit like an interloper, with my week-old diagnosis and yet to commence treatment.  But it is an exclusive club and I will be fully inducted soon enough.  There is a common misconception that prostate cancer only affects men over 50.  So I wondered if my presence made my senior fellow patients feel a little bit better, by reducing the average age profile.

Yoga is something I had not tried before and I did find it relaxing.  Being the new boy in the class meant I kept glancing around me to see what everybody else was doing.  Connie’s verbal instructions were clear enough but I’m a visual kind of person and tend to understand what I see better than what I hear.  I will keep going to the weekly class, not least for the sense of camaraderie and mutual support that only fellow cancer patients can provide.

The strain of the impending treatment and uncertainty about the outcome is starting to show in Colette.  My wife is being exceptionally nice to me and, as every married man knows, this is cause for concern!  Colette has not read as much as I have about prostate cancer, its treatment and their consequences, both inevitable and potential.  She needs more time to get her head around it all and she feels a need to await the MRI and bone scan results, to know exactly what we’re faced with.  I have tried to convince her to avail of supports from the Irish Cancer Society and the ARC cancer support centre in Eccles Street.  But everybody is different so I don’t push it, trusting that Colette will find the inner strength to deal with this in her own time and her own way.

Colette has told Grace that I will be spending some time in hospital soon, without going into detail.  At just six years of age, I don’t expect that this will mean very much to Grace.  She has not mentioned anything to me about it so I wonder how much she will understand.  At some stage, we are going to have to explain to Grace why I am ‘not myself’ and not going out to work.  But before we can do that, Colette and I need to understand more about that lies ahead ourselves.

The highlight of this week was having my MRI scan yesterday.  This and the bone scan are the great swords of Domacles hanging over my family.  Everything is on hold pending the results of these tests, which will establish whether and to what extent the cancer has spread.  At risk of being melodramatic, I see these tests as indicators of whether I am going die of this cancer or survive it.  Concerns about incontinence or ED pale into insignificance in comparison with a literal matter of life or death.

I had not had an MRI scan before and it was more or less what I expected.  On exchanging my clothes for a most unflattering gown, Frances went through the obligatory checklist to make sure I didn’t have any metal in or on my person and whether I suffered from claustrophobia.  The scan would take twenty minutes and there would be a lot of noise so I’d have headphones on with the radio station of my choice.  It was tuned to Lyric FM but, as much as I like classical music, the choice seemed a bit clichéd for the task at hand.  So I opted for Newstalk, which I would normally be listening to in the car on the way home from work about now.

All prepped and ready, Frances left me alone in the room and the sounds from the headphones changed from classical music to Newstalk.  At this point, it occurred to me that I was about to be scanned for signs of the spread of cancer throughout my body.  I would be unable to move for twenty minutes inside a giant magnet and I’d have George Hook in my ears.  Oh well, in for a penny in for a pound, there’s going to be far worse than this to contend with later.

The first thing that struck me on entering the MRI scanner was how much more confined was the space than I expected, the top of the chamber no more than a couple of inches from my face.  I imagined how much like being in a coffin it must be, without the cheap wood and frills.  Not the most comforting of thoughts when you’re being scanned for a spread of cancer through your body.  It also confirmed my wish to be cremated when the time comes. But, being something of a science fiction nerd, I also found it a curiously interesting experience, wondering how magnetism ‘sees’ inside the body and making a mental note to Google it later.  When the scan started, it was indeed very noisy and I was glad of the company of George Hook for twenty minutes.

When it was all over, Frances returned and had checked up to find out whether there was any progress on my bone scan.  I had mentioned earlier that I was still waiting for an appointment for one.  To my surprise, there is an appointment in the system, for next Thursday, and Frances surmised there is probably a letter in the post for me.  She gave me a number to ring on Monday to confirm it.  My appointment is with, of all things, the “Nuclear Medicine” department, much to the titillation of my inner nerd.  I mean, “nuclear” medicine – how cool is that!

Comments Off | Cancer

     

↑ Back to top